Six
The cemetery gates were open. Alex drove through them.
She had never been to her mother's grave, but she knew the
plot number. It had been jotted down and filed among some
official papers that she'd found when she had moved her
grandmother into the nursing home.
The sky looked cold and unfriendly. The sun was suspended
just above the western horizon like a giant orange
disk, brilliant but brassy. Tombstones cast long shadows
across the dead grass.
Using discreet signposts for reference, Alex located the
correct row, parked her car, and got out. As far as she could
tell, she was the only person there. Here on the outskirts of
town, the north wind seemed stronger, its howl more ominous.
She flipped up the collar of her coat as she made her
way toward the plot.
Even though she was searching for it, she wasn't prepared
to see the grave. It rushed up on her unexpectedly. Her impulse was to turn away, as though she'd happened upon an
atrocity, something horrible and offensive.
The rectangular marker was no more than two feet high.
She wouldn't have ever noticed it if it weren't for the
name. It gave only her mother's date of birth, and date of
death--nothing else. Not an epitaph. Not an obligatory,
"In loving memory of." Nothing but the barest statistical
facts.
The scarcity of information broke Alex's heart. Celina had
been so young and pretty and full of promise, yet she'd been
diminished to anonymity.
She knelt beside the grave. It was set apart from the others,
alone at the crest of a gradual incline. Her father's body had
been shipped from Vietnam to his native West Virginia, courtesy
of the United States Army. Grandfather Graham, who
had died when Celina was just a girl, was buried in his
hometown. Celina's grave was starkly solitary.
The headstone was cold to the touch. She traced the carved
letters of her mother's first name with her fingertip, then
pressed her hand on the brittle grass in front of it, as though
feeling for a heartbeat.
She had foolishly imagined that she might be able to communicate
with her supernaturally, but the only sensation she
felt was that of the stubbly grass pricking her palm.
"Mother," she whispered, testing the word. "Mama.
Mommy." The names felt foreign to her tongue and lips.
She'd never spoken them to anyone before.
"She swore you recognized her just by the sound of her
voice."
Startled, Alex spun around. Pressing a hand to her pounding
heart, she gasped in fright. "You scared me. What are
you doing here?"
Junior Minton knelt beside her and laid a bouquet of fresh
flowers against the headstone. He studied it for a moment,
then turned his head and smiled wistfully at Alex.
"Instinct. I called the motel, but you didn't answer when
they rang your room."
"How did you know where I was staying?"
"Everybody knows everything about everybody in this
town."
"No one knew I was coming to the cemetery."
"Deductive reasoning. I tried to imagine where I might be
if I were in your shoes. If you don't want company, I'll
leave."
"No. It's all right." Alex looked back at the name carved